How the Mighty Fall (In Love)
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] Blaine abandons his loving relationship with his boyfriend to pursue an exciting affair with celebrity mountaineer Sebastian Smythe. He soon finds out Sebastian is a difficult man to love.


**author's notes:** written for Seblaine Week 2016, day 4: **classic movie au**. sooo, this is a Killing Me Softly au, and while the movie might not be a _classic_ in the strictest sense of the word it's one that's always stayed with me (as has the book *cough*). there won't be more of this, but i hope you all enjoy!

 **warning:** CHEATING

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 **How the Mighty Fall (In Love)**

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Two alarm clocks start blaring a few seconds apart, a drastic measure he'd taken once it became clear his boyfriend was not an early riser, and it often took him a whole lot of persuasion to get him out of bed. He groans and switches on the bedside lamp, feeling a hand back for Adam's thigh.

"Wake up, honey," he says, and shakes at Adam's leg.

He gets up and stalks towards the window, drawing back the curtains. "It's another lovely day in London town," he announces, trying his best not to be discouraged by the dark clouds coming closer. He makes a mental note to grab an umbrella on his way out; he has no desire to get caught in the rain.

"Liar," Adam mutters.

"Get up," he says, snatching Adam's pillow from under his head and smacking him with it. "You'll be late for work."

"I haven't been late for work once since meeting you," Adam says, before he sits up in bed, slipping his feet into his slippers.

He shakes his head and smiles, quickly making his way into the kitchen to start the tea and set the table while Adam showers.

Ten minutes later they switch positions, Adam smacking his ass as they pass each other in the tiny hallway, the walls covered with pictures of the two of them on both sides, smiling, kissing, doing what couples do.

He's been in London for a year and a half.

His first six months had been very lonely; there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't wonder if moving had been such a good idea. Not only did he move to a new town, get a new job, he was also on the other side of the world. Of course he loved his job, and it was the thought of reinventing himself that had spurned the spontaneous action, but he hadn't made a great many friends that weren't colleagues, and he'd underestimated his need for company. He'd met few people who shared his interests, and even though he loved his colleagues, there was still something missing.

But then one day at a birthday party he was introduced to Adam. They'd laughed and talked all night, there was an ease to their interaction and Adam's openness that was refreshing; Adam smiled wide and talked in long breathless sentences and seemed passionate about many of the same things he was; musical theatre, his family, a good movie now and then.

They were living together four weeks later.

He was born and raised in Westerville, Ohio, and lived in the shadows of his big brother Cooper for the first eighteen years of his life. His parents weren't around for either of them, so he was left in Cooper's care quite often. Care being a relative term. His young life had consisted of finding his own way, preparing his own meals, making sure to get himself to school or dance class, becoming self-reliant faster than most children had to.

Once he'd graduated high school he went off to college in New York without looking back all too often, but focused on achieving his dream of becoming a teacher. He'd had a few boyfriends, short-lived relationships that hadn't meant a great deal to him, and his focus on his studies and later his job made it easy to forget about the part of him that did crave companionship.

It was one Christmas Eve, and his mother had somehow gotten both him and Cooper to attend family dinner, when he'd decided he needed a change. He'd been working as a teacher for close to two years, had a few friends that were also colleagues, and he was single, which prompted Cooper to call his life 'bland and boring, not worth living at all.' He hadn't been in the habit of letting his brother get under his skin since he'd hit puberty, but something about Cooper's statement had sunk in deep, festering long after Christmas, New Year's and even Easter was over.

He was stuck in a steady routine, encapsulated by his job and the few interests he chose to pursue without thinking about his future, whether that meant settling down with a nice guy or career opportunities. So he'd taken a leap; he had the degree and the experience and The American School in London was eager to hire him when he applied for the opening in the Early Childhood Program.

But he wouldn't have lasted this long if it hadn't been for Adam.

Even Cooper was surprised when he told him he'd met a guy and planned on moving in with him—his brother had argued it was too soon for such a big change, but he and Adam loved each other and saw no reason to waste time. They rented a small but comfortable townhouse in a long row of identical ones, suited perfectly to their needs, and within walking distance of the tube station, where they both started their commutes.

What he loved most about Adam was how comfortable they were around each other; they moved in sync even during their early morning routine, and talked about every detail of their lives. There wasn't anything about Adam he didn't know, and he kept no secrets from Adam.

Adam feels safe, and he hadn't felt that with anyone before.

Adam Crawford was the youngest of three boys, born and raised in Essex in a single-parent household. He worked in IT for a big software company. He'd been offered a company car, but settled for the iPhone and the Macbook—London traffic was best avoided during rush hour. Above ground, at least.

Breakfast is their sacred part of the day. Whereas they spend their dinners talking about their days, breakfast lingers in relative silence; they sit and eat the meal they prepared together, Adam checks football scores on his phone, while he appreciates his tea—at school he only ever drinks coffee, but after almost two years he couldn't do without his Darjeeling.

It's rare that real life invades breakfast.

"Rachel wants to know if we can make it to her show this weekend," Adam says, once he finds his way back into the kitchen, smelling of tea, toast and fresh fruit.

"This Friday?" he asks, pouring them both a glass of orange juice. "I volunteered for the sports thing at school."

"It's her last show before she goes back to America," Adam pleads, knowing it will get his attention.

Rachel Berry, the product of the union of British West End actor Richard Berry and Broadway star Shelby Corcoran, was Adam's best friend in the whole world. They'd been roommates while both attending college, splitting the cost of a tiny rental in London, and were inseparable even during the months Rachel spent in America. He still hasn't figured out how Adam keeps up with the phone bills.

"I'll move some things around," he concedes, which earns him a grateful smile. He likes Rachel, not only because he recognizes her tremendous talent, but she brings out a schoolboy giddiness in Adam that's adorable.

Adam gets up from his chair and leans down to press his lips to his. "Have I told you lately how madly I'm in love with you?"

"Hmm," he hums, his lips tingling. "It never hurts to hear it."

Adam kisses him again.

.

Ten minutes later they make their way into the tube station, where Adam buys the Daily Mail and he buys The Guardian, and he waits patiently for Adam to hand him his tube tickets. Adam fumbles longer than most people would have the patience for, but he finds it oddly endearing—Adam keeps the tickets in the same wallet he got when he was twelve.

"Have a good day," he says, their lips meeting in a quick goodbye kiss.

Adam smiles. "See you later."

It takes him only twenty minutes to reach his destination on the Jubilee line and he's quickly caught in the bustle of foot traffic, the whole of London trying to get to work on time—school only starts at 8:20, but he likes to make a fresh pot of coffee in the teacher's lounge and set up the classroom before the kids arrive.

The lights at the crosswalk turn green, a truck rushing past at the last second. He checks if it's safe, looks to his left and his right, and starts to cross the street, absentmindedly noting a man in a brown leather jacket coming at him from the other side.

It's only when he allows his eyes to wander, as they do without conscious thought behind the effort, and his eyes lock with the stranger, that his whole world changes.

He doesn't know if he stops first, or if it's the other man.

What he does know is the moment transpires the way it does in movies: one minute his feet are carrying him past a man without a name, without identity, until their eyes lock and both their bodies make a half turn and his legs stop functioning; he stops in the middle of the road, while the stranger makes it to the other side, where he halts too, and doesn't once take his eyes off him.

Time stands still between them while the rest of the world continues turning.

Because those eyes.

Mysterious eyes stop him dead in his tracks, tired but intense, green, even though he shouldn't be able to make them out from his distance, world-weary but intelligent; a face with sharp angles, like his nose, and thin lips curved into a small smile.

But those eyes, they pierce him with a longing he's scarcely felt in his life. His mouth goes dry and the air grows thinner, keeping him from breathing properly. A heady sensation settles at the base of his spine. He wants to know this man, lose himself in that intense stare, get wrapped up in unfamiliar arms, and have every inch of his body charted by calloused hands.

He couldn't say how long they stand there face to face, staring at each other.

It feels like a second and eternity at the same time.

A car honks to his right, and he jumps.

His cheeks flush hot and he hurries to the other side of the street.

What's he thinking?

He knows he takes a chance when he looks up again, searching for the stranger's eyes through the fresh onslaught of traffic. But sure enough, there they are, emerald eyes focused only on him from across the street, never leaving, unrelenting. Excitement rushes up his spine as well as an unknown fear: no one has ever paid him this kind of attention. No one has looked at him like this at all before. No one.

And he's never felt this naked.

"Blaine, are you coming in?" a voice calls and he turns on instinct; Isabel, his fellow nursery teacher stands at the entrance of the school, waiting to go in. Of everyone at the school she's probably his closest friend.

"Y-Yeah," he stammers; Isabel smiles and hurries inside.

He tempts fate one last time, figuring it's his last shot to see his stranger before they disappear from each other's lives. He looks up, studying the crowd meticulously. He doesn't meet green eyes again, but he spots the leather jacket as his stranger makes his way down the street talking to another man, and they enter the Summit bookstore across the street together.

He takes a deep breath. That's it, he thinks, he's had his bit of excitement for today.

Now it's six hours of chatty toddlers and class projects and lunch with Isabel in between, before he heads to the supermarket to buy fresh vegetables for dinner tonight. The kids keep him pretty busy; he spends the first half hour of the day getting them all out of the raincoats they all seem to be strapped into, and replacing their wellies with regular shoes.

One of his favorite students, Katie, a four-year old with a rampant bundle of blonde curls, brought her pet turtle Dottie for show-and-tell and she spends longer than the allotted time talking about what Dottie eats and where she's originally from—he's been known to let presentations run longer when his kids talk passionately about their topics, and Katie has the lovely ability to enchant the other children with her small-but-strong singsong voice.

It's during recess that his mind drifts back to this chance encounter with that man earlier—he's grabbing a cup of coffee in the teacher's lounge and he realizes the window on the East side looks out onto the street; including the Summit bookstore. He can't help but wonder if his stranger's still in there, what he's doing there with that other man, what kind of books he's leafing through...

If he were a character in a romance novel some strange twist of fate might throw them back together; maybe they'll keep bumping into each other at random places until one of them decides to make the first move.

Adam often makes fun of him for liking those silly novels he picks up along with his newspaper.

And Adam's right.

Real life isn't a romance novel.

But if all he allows himself remains an innocent fantasy about a ruggedly handsome stranger—he fails to see the harm in that. It doesn't affect his job performance, even if he feels his concentration waning from time to time, but he blames that on the absurdity of it all; he'd stood staring _in the middle of the street_ , and this random man had blatantly followed his example.

He'd stood mesmerized, and that wasn't like him.

Isabel comments on his inattention at lunch, but he smiles that away with little to no effort, quickly steering the conversation back onto next month's school trip.

He spends the final hour of the day reading aloud from a fairytale book he'd found in a cute bookstore in Adam's hometown, all the kids sitting around him on the floor, listening attentively while he voices every character differently. The story helps him find his focus again after a confusing day, the kids listening attentively with their chins resting on their tiny fists.

Monday continues like any other.

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The final bell rings at 2:30 and the kids pour out of the classroom, leaving behind the stark sound of silence and his own breathing. It wouldn't be wrong to go take a peek inside the bookstore on his way home, would it? He goes there for new books all the time; the proprietor even knows his name—so it wouldn't be completely inappropriate to go take a look.

He goes around the classroom to pick up the trash some of the kids missed and puts all the chairs on the desks to help out the janitors. He packs his things together and turns off the lights, his fingers lingering on the switch.

Green eyes flash in his mind's eye like a vivid reimagining.

"Ridiculous," he mouths, and laughs; he can't believe how big a deal he's making out of this, like some lovesick schoolboy whose crush gave him the time of day and he doesn't know what to do. He got less than a minute's attention from a total stranger and he doesn't understand why it's affected him. It's like his eyes have been opened to something that wasn't a possibility before, like it took a stranger to see his own agency. Which seems to him as equally ridiculous—he has complete autonomy over his life here, in his job and his relationship with Adam. So why would a stranger turn that upside down?

He makes his way downstairs, fingers curling around the leather strap of his satchel. It's been six hours, there's no way his romance novel hero is still in the store.

He crosses the street and bites his lip, his heart beating frantic.

He's walked this route so many times, to and from work, but this is the first time he's aware of every single step he takes, bringing him closer and closer to the bookstore he knows like the back of his hand. Maybe that's why it only takes a single glance through the window to see his stranger standing at the counter, talking to the storeowner.

His heart jumps and he's pinned to the ground again. There he is, his Knight in Shining Armor, though he's not sure what he would need saving from—yet that's how he feels. His shoulders relax, even though it's painfully obvious he's staring clear past the books in the front window.

And then his stranger turns his head and looks straight at him.

" _Fudge_ ," he whispers and averts his eyes, shuffling as he casts down his eyes. He hasn't been reduced to a blushing schoolboy in years; it's a feat not even Adam has managed in all the time they've been together.

His eyes catch on the book prominently displayed in the window.

 _Heaven Starts at 90,000 Feet_ , the title reads, above an image of his stranger.

And his name.

Sebastian Smythe.

Mountaineer.

His mystery man climbs mountains.

His eyes catch on a pair of shoes as they appear on the other side of the window. He raises his gaze tentatively, fully prepared to be disappointed; maybe it's the storeowner come to chase him away, or another customer.

But it's neither.

Air punches right out of his lungs when his eyes meet green ones again, closer than ever now. His cheeks burn hot, his skin threadbare, thin even beneath his layers of clothing, and his innermost workings exposed underneath that meticulous gaze, but his usual embarrassment doesn't show.

He doesn't feel looked at, but _seen_.

For some reason empowerment travels through his veins, being allowed to stare so openly without repercussions, being stared at so shamelessly—it's the two of them and no one else—theirs is a space without responsibilities, without judgment, everything they are and could be is alive right there between them.

His stranger speaks, presumably to the two men at the counter, and he assumes he gets an answer. Because then his stranger, _Sebastian_ , moves and the little bell above the door rings and he's walking towards him.

His heart tries to beat out of his chest.

Life isn't a romance novel. This shouldn't be happening.

But there he stands, his Hero, his Knight, his stranger, about to make the first move so their story can begin. It's a silly schoolboy fantasy, because at most Sebastian will introduce himself and the total sum of their conversation will come down to the fact that neither of them is single. Which seems a sad and abrupt ending to their story, but that's how it goes in real life.

It's all still a fantasy.

But the final act never comes, Sebastian never speaks, barely smiles; all he knows are those eyes and he barely registers how Sebastian raises a hand, hailing a cab to the curb.

Is this it, he wonders, their story cut short without closure, maybe a promise for something more, something later, a _to be continued_.

He's proven wrong again.

The cab pulls up and Sebastian walks over, opens the door and—turns back to face him.

Casanova invites him closer. An agent in his own narrative.

Yes. He gets in the car.

Their hands lie close but don't touch on the seat between them, his fingers straining into the leather every now and then. He doesn't look to his right, where Sebastian sits, not once; he's afraid that if he does the world will dissolve and it'll all turn out to be a dream. So he sits, fidgety, his dick throbbing in his pants at the mere thought of what might happen, of what he's getting himself into.

Then again, what is he getting into? This man could be a rapist, a psychopath, a serial killer; for all he knows he'll get strapped to a chair or bed the moment he walks into whatever shack he's being taken to. _He hasn't thought this through properly._

The cab stops in front of a red light and he reaches for the exit handle, his fingers curling around the plastic bar and if at all possible his heart races even faster. There's something thick stuck in his throat and a heady scent of lust rising in the cabin.

What's he doing? He's not thinking, he's feeling, and his body has already made the decision for him. It wants the fantasy, the story, where everything lies possible and happy endings exist.

Sebastian doesn't try to stop him. He allows him the option.

He releases a shaky breath and takes his hand off the handle. He wants this. He wants the fantasy.

"What's your name?" Sebastian asks as he settles back in his seat, his voice warm like silk and his accent— _American_ , the thought flashes through him. _He's American too_.

He wills his voice to cooperate. "Blaine."

"Blaine," Sebastian repeats, the sound of his name falling from uncharted lips. Will he chart them?

They stop somewhere in Soho, Sebastian quickly paying the cab driver and climbing out of the car. Sebastian doesn't wait for him; he pushes through a gate in front of a two-story townhouse and hops up the stairs that lead up to the front door. His Knight disappears inside.

He doesn't follow quite so fluidly—he gets out of the car, his hands hooked around the satchel now dangling by his side, and he lingers at the bottom of the stairs.

This is his final chance to turn back; once that door closes behind him all reason will be futile because they'll be truly alone, and all sense of things will abandon him. Whatever sense hasn't left him already.

He should turn back. He has a perfectly nice life waiting for him, with a guy he loves and his dream job—maybe that's what makes the fantasy far too tempting. All that is waiting, on hold, and will still be there afterwards. Adam never needs to know.

It should scare him senseless that this is all so easy.

The moment his foot hits the first step there's no going back, no safe passage back to his old life, there's only a handsome and mysterious stranger in a strange neighborhood and a strange house and he's about to start something he could regret for the rest of his life. Though possibly not nearly as great as the regret he'll feel should he turn back now.

He climbs the steps with an impending sense of things to come, of what he's about to do and an exciteful fear courses through him; another man, a different man, one to see him in ways no one ever has before.

He enters a spacious hallway, two entryways to the living room to his left, the kitchen in front of him.

The door falls shut behind him.

His skin crawls with anticipation and the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

This is it. The fantasy.

He closes his eyes when he feels the Pied Piper's breath caress the shell of his ear.

His bag hits the floor.

Hands creep up his back and massage at his shoulders, a madness burning between his shoulder blades—he's never lusted after anything like this, this all-encompassing and anonymous, he's never once enjoyed this danger the way it's cascading through him now. He could destroy everything by doing this.

He _could be_ destroyed.

Sebastian struggles with his coat for a few seconds, but soon that falls to the floor too, and next thing his shirt's pulled from his pants, warm hands applied to his skin. He moans and throws his head back, placing his hands on top of Sebastian's—he needs to touch every inch of him, needs to be touched, needs to be taken.

"Blaine," Sebastian says, teeth grazing over a spot behind his ear before lips form over the abused skin.

"Hmm," he manages, strong arms keeping him locked in a tight embrace and _oh God_ he's half hard thinking about everything that could come after this.

" _Blaine_ ," Sebastian repeats, fingers digging deeper all over, up and down his abdomen and at his waist, up and down his spine, while he nips and sucks at his neck.

"Yes," he finds his voice, but when all that follows is another iteration of his name, he lets it go, his guts knotting together at the sound of his name falling from Sebastian's lips over and over again like he's being worshipped, like it's the only name in the universe, like his body is the first and only he's ever touched.

From his position behind him, Sebastian unbuttons his shirt, mouth hot at the back of his neck; his shirt's peeled off, past his shoulders, down his arms, discarded on the floor. Calloused fingers tease past the hem of his pants, fingertips tracing the elastics of his boxers front to back and back around again, until they finally undo his pants.

Sebastian sneaks a hand inside, cupping around his dick, and something wild and savage traces down his spine, has him pushing back against Sebastian's body, reaching his hands around to touch, to prey, to pry—

Until Sebastian backs off.

He's afraid to move, afraid to breathe, while the outlines of his body become unsubstantial.

Sebastian walks around him until they're face to face again, and kneels down at his feet—he takes off his shoes one by one, placing them next to his crumpled coat. He has to hold onto Sebastian's shoulder to keep from falling over. Sebastian slides his pants down his thighs, helping him step out of them, and discards those too.

Then, Sebastian rises on his knees, and gently, reverently, plants a kiss over his navel, pulling his boxers down in the same smooth move—he steps out of them, and reaches down, trembling naked in an unfamiliar room, cupping a hand around Sebastian's jaw.

His Knight raises his eyes.

Without looking at his body, voice suffused with a groan, Sebastian whispers, "Blaine, you're flawless."

He blushes, but he can't look away.

"Do people tell you that?"

Sebastian stands.

"Not—really. No."

Green eyes trace over his face, as if cataloguing how it looks when he tells the truth.

"Shame."

He should be scared, but he isn't, not of Sebastian, anyway. He's afraid of this basely covetous thing growing like branches of a tree over his back.

He steps forward and pushes Sebastian's leather jacket off his shoulders, down his arms, letting it fall to the floor. Sebastian raises his arms over his head like he's a little boy when he tugs his shirt free from his jeans and pulls it over his head; his arms are tanned and toned, his stomach flat, torso covered in freckles in a whimsicality he never would've attributed to Sebastian; and a necklace, with at the end a thing he can't identify.

There's a thick scar running from Sebastian's wrist to his elbow, another smaller one over his collarbone, and he traces both with the tips of his fingers. He wonders what it's like up there, in the mountains, in the cold, at that height—how a body can survive all this and still seek out that thrill again.

He should buy Sebastian's book, when he gets the chance.

Copying Sebastian he kneels down at his feet, and takes off his shoes, socks. On his right foot Sebastian's missing two toes, and he runs his fingers over the stumps too—Sebastian sighs softly.

"You're a teacher," Sebastian says, intonation lacking the sound of a question.

He draws Sebastian's boxers down his hips.

"Yes."

Sebastian smooths his fingers into his curls, tugging slightly.

"Caring, and gentle."

He stands.

"I try to be."

Sebastian traces his index finger along his lower lip. "I want all of you, Blaine."

His eyes fall shut.

"No," Sebastian says. "Look at me."

He doesn't intend for the "Please," that tumbles from his lips, but once it's there between them he can't stop. "Please," he begs, and Sebastian's hands land on his face, Sebastian pushes him back against the hallway wall and settles their naked bodies together, before finally, mercifully, kissing him.

His lips part and they breathe together for a second or two, his whole body trembling, and Sebastian's tongue pushes inside his mouth. The kiss is deep and sensual, deliberately slow, even though urgency travels through his veins, and he can't help his fingers digging in deep around Sebastian's waist.

Sebastian brings their foreheads together. "Stop me whenever you want."

"Don't stop," he hushes, and it's all the encouragement Sebastian seems to need—he forces their mouths back together and tilts his hips, rubbing their dicks together.

They trace back into the living room, where they sink down onto the floor, covered in a deep red rug, Sebastian a solid weight on top of him.

Sebastian kisses down his chest and licks and nips, and all he can do is writhe beneath him, tangle fingers into his auburn hair and tug, and pull, and moan, because he'll never want anything as incoherently as he wants Sebastian right now.

"Wait here," Sebastian mutters to his skin and gets up, disappearing into an adjacent room before he has the chance to protest—his breathing becomes frantic and shame sets in, all naked and spread out on a stranger's floor. He's scared, so scared of this person he is right now, this different version of him laid bare by Sebastian, a part of him he's never experienced.

Sebastian comes back with a small bottle of lube and condoms.

He relaxes down onto the rug, his spine settling straight against the long hairs.

Sebastian lies down in between his legs, and kisses him, and he winds his arms around him as if to possess—Sebastian's his and no one else's and anyone who tries to take him should expect a fight.

It's another part of him he's never experienced before; he's not the possessive type, but for Sebastian he wants to be—the boy locked in the tower waiting to be saved, the blind man hoping to see, the hero in need of help.

Sebastian lubes up his fingers and starts opening him up; one finger, then two, and their mouths hover over each other, like they're unable to settle on what to do, like they're waiting, like they simply need to breathe the same air to stay alive.

All the while Sebastian's eyes don't leave him, not once.

He's experienced different kinds of sex in his life; he's had bad sex with people he loved, good sex with people he ended up resenting, indifferent sex, great sex with men he never saw again, but none of those compare to this.

"Open your eyes," Sebastian says, and it all but obliterates him once Sebastian pushes inside, slow and measured, making sure he doesn't hurt him. All that matters is here and now, right now, a pocket of time they steal for themselves.

He's mad with want and his hips meet Sebastian's rhythm, increasing ever so slightly—he moans, " _Sebastian_ ," and Sebastian pins his hands over his head, tangles their fingers and fucks into him. His fingers squeeze Sebastian's and it's all he ever wants to do for the rest of his life.

.

Afterwards, Sebastian takes him upstairs to shower—he doesn't look at him now, but focuses on the task he sets himself. Sebastian touches and massages, soaps up his chest and abdomen, scrubs at the small of his back where sweat had gathered no ten minutes earlier. Sebastian washes between his legs, his cheeks, all the way down to his toes, shampoos his hair and instructs him to tilt his head back, so no soap can drip into his eyes.

Sebastian leaves him in the shower while he dries, until he's invited outside too, and he finds himself wrapped up in a thick warm towel—Sebastian ruffles through his hair, making him giggle, dries the back of his neck and behind his ears, down his torso and his legs.

He feels revered, and cheap at the same time.

"I saw your book earlier," he says, before Sebastian kisses his shoulder, up his neck, pushes a kiss over that lovely spot behind his ear.

For some reason, Sebastian's reply sends shivers down his spine.

He runs downstairs to get his clothes, dressing quickly—he's naked in a stranger's house and for the first time since he walked through the door he's self-conscious about it. What's he thinking abandoning all propriety? What's he thinking cheating on Adam?

"Don't hide," comes Sebastian's voice; he's dressed in nothing but his boxers. "It doesn't suit you."

He pulls up his boxers, and shrugs his shirt over his shoulders.

Sebastian kisses him softly. "Come here tomorrow."

He shakes his head. "I have to work."

"Then stay," Sebastian urges, pulling him closer still.

"I can't," he says, and Sebastian kisses his forehead—he should tell him then and there that he has a partner; not just a boyfriend, but that he lives with someone, and it's serious. Or at least he thought it was.

He doesn't end up saying anything; he kisses Sebastian and can't find the strength to pull away—all he wants is to drown in his body again, feel Sebastian inside him, around him, on top of him.

"Whatever you want, Blaine." Sebastian hugs him. "You decide. I'll be here."

He smiles into Sebastian's shoulder; an agent in his own narrative.

.

Despite rushing to the supermarket for fresh vegetables he's still home well ahead of Adam, which leaves him all alone in a house suddenly too big, too cold, and not at all something he deserves.

He strips out of his clothes in the bathroom and throws them in the hamper, and takes his third shower that day; he washes in his and Adam's soap, shampoos with his and Adam's raspberry scented conditioner, all in the hopes of getting Sebastian's scent off him.

Adam comes home and kisses his cheek, and doesn't remark on the fact that his curls are still wet, or that he smells differently, so that tells him Sebastian's lingering scent is probably a figment of his imagination.

At dinner they talk about their days, like they always do; they do the dishes together and settle in front of the TV, and it's all so... safe. It's domestic. It's the kind of relationship he always wanted, where friendship and companionship went hand in hand.

And he'd thrown that all away for some fantasy.

One that could never last.

They head to bed early, where Adam strips him naked in the dark, kisses his chest, chaste and softly, taking him into his mouth. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, but no matter how good it feels, no matter how safe and familiar, his heartbeat barely quickens.

Minutes later he shifts on top and sinks down over his boyfriend's dick, aching for release in ways he never thought he would—he wants it over with already, but makes sure not to get ahead of himself. He and Adam don't have adventurous sex; he's hesitant to use the words 'bland' and 'boring.'

"What do you want me to do?" Adam grabs around his waist, thrusting shallowly.

His hands land on Adam's chest, firm and toned, and he circles his hips. "Just keep doing what you're doing."

They switch positions again, and Adam starts jerking him off in rhythm with his thrusts, but his thoughts are elsewhere the entire time. When he finally orgasms and spills over Adam's hand, all he can see are two emerald eyes staring down at him.

Adam lies down next to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "Sorry. My mind's just elsewhere."

"School field trip?"

He smiles. He wishes it were just that.

"Yeah."

.

That night, he lies awake for hours. Life isn't a romance novel; no one meets their Prince Charming on a busy London road, and the protagonist definitely doesn't cheat on their loving and doting partner of over a year. It can't happen again, he decides, it has to stop with this one time. Would he even find his way back? It's not like he memorized the address.

He's a cheater now, and they don't deserve happy endings.

.

"I saw your book earlier," he says to Sebastian, before he kisses his shoulder, his neck, that lovely spot behind his ear.

"It isn't my book," Sebastian answers mournfully, "I just happened to be in it."

.

.

 **fin**

.


End file.
